


chocolate.

by keehl



Category: Death Note & Related Fandoms, Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Childhood Friends, Cuddling & Snuggling, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Light Angst, M/M, Wammy's Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:35:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23117074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keehl/pseuds/keehl
Relationships: Matt | Mail Jeevas/Mello | Mihael Keehl
Comments: 5
Kudos: 43





	chocolate.

At age seven, Mail hated chocolate.

There was no real reason for it, nothing that had caused him to dislike the treat, he’d simply always disliked it. He found it sickly in how sweet it was, and he didn’t like its texture as it melted in his mouth. He never really did like sugary foods, and chocolate was, in his opinion, the worst of those. As such, it as just about the last thing one could ever expect to find in his room.

It was at this age that he met Mello. Mello liked chocolate. Mail never thought much of it — most people liked chocolate. He didn’t really mind it, although he did notice the smell of it when he was around him, as if he carried the smell of chocolate with him.

Mello often offered to share his chocolate with him, breaking pieces off the bar he was eating — always from the bottom end, as he bit into it rather than breaking the squares off to eat them — but Mail always refused. That didn’t stop him from offering, but it never bothered Mail, he was only being polite.

Mail hated chocolate, but he liked this new friend.

* * *

By the age of nine, there was always a stash of milk chocolate in Mail’s bedroom.

The boy who had moved in some time before, a blonde Russian boy by the alias of _Mello_ , was obsessed with the stuff, Mail had learned quickly, scarcely seen without a bar of it in his hand. Mello was never _officially_ Mail’s roommate, but by this point he might as well have been, he never slept in his own room anymore. He always took comfort in sleeping in Mail’s room, in his _bed_ even, and Mail didn’t mind that; he found it was nice to have a friend so close. He had never had a friend before.

He didn’t hate chocolate anymore, although he never ate it himself. If anything, he appreciated it, he respected it. Mello was the sort of person who got upset easily, and there were plenty of things that could set him off. Most commonly, it was another boy who lived at Wammy’s House, a boy a year younger than Mello and Mail, by the alias of Near. Mail never really interacted with him, but he learned not quite to hate him, but to resent him, for the way he unintentionally upset Mello. The way Mello always saw it, his endeavours to be good at what he did were pointless, because no matter how immense his successes Near would find a way of showing him up, making it look like he didn’t even have to try. The way Mail saw it, Mello had no reason to be so upset about that, as his achievements _were_ impressive, and the fact that Near could outdo him wasn’t important.

Chocolate became a scent he was used to. He didn’t mind the smell of it anymore, even learned to take comfort in it, because he knew it meant that Mello was pacified. It was easier to give him chocolate to comfort him, he had always struggled badly with words.

Mello’s tears were wet and warm on his shoulder, and Mail wasn’t sure if he was even trying to hug him properly, wrapping his arms awkwardly around his waist and rubbing at his back to try and soothe him while they sat against the bed, on the floor. Softly, in a voice he hoped was reassuring, he asked him not to cry, but that seemed only to make the problem worse. He asked what was wrong, but immediately regretted it when he felt Mello tense up. He was about to correct himself, before Mello lifted his head, wiping his eyes roughly on the back of his hands.

“It was him again,” the boy whispered, and Mail didn’t need to ask who, he knew. It was always the same story. He had always found this feud that Mello had invented in his head to be pointless, but as useless as he was with people, he wasn’t so tactless that he thought it was appropriate to tell Mello so. It upset him, Mail could understand that.

Mail didn’t speak. He knew Mello wasn’t finished. He would keep talking in his own time, and the worst thing that Mail could do was to interrupt him. He had learned that much since meeting Mello. And he tried his best to remember these things, so he didn’t accidentally make things worse.

“I don’t know why I bother,” Mello mumbled, his voice wavering and thin. His usual script, Mail knew what was coming next. But he would wait, and listen to it as if it was the first time he had heard it. And he would listen the same way every time he would hear this rant in the future. He sat in silence, still rubbing Mello’s back up and down, waiting patiently. “ _Everything_ I do . . . none of it is ever good enough, Matt,” he whispered, “he . . . he _always_ does this. He doesn’t even have to _try_! And he doesn’t seem to care at all, if he even _notices_. Why should I keep putting effort into _any_ of this, this place, being number one, why should I try if every single time I do, Near finds some way of doing everything I do, bigger, better, with less effort?”

He didn’t speak, Mello didn’t want him to. The question was rhetorical. The questions were always rhetorical. Mail simply kept quiet, kept rubbing his back. Kept listening. That was all Mello wanted, someone to listen to him, to hold him. So that was what he did.

Mello didn’t seem to have much more to say that evening, but he wasn’t finished shedding his tears. He cried for more than an hour more before his grip on Mail loosened enough for him to move away. He didn’t go far, though. He just reached into his bedside drawer, and wordlessly offered Mello a bar of chocolate, one of the several he kept in that drawer, just in case his friend needed them.

Mello smiled as he unwrapped the bar, and Mail smiled back. For once, rather than hating it, Mail was glad to have chocolate on hand.

* * *

When Mail was eleven, he learned to enjoy the taste of chocolate. But not by eating it himself.

He knew Mihael’s name now. Mihael had told him himself, on a late summer’s evening, while they were sat outside Wammy’s House, shaded by a tree. They were listening to the chirping of the birds in the trees around them, mostly in silence for the majority of the afternoon as they so often did. It had become a comfort for him to spend those hours with him, and the silence was far from uncomfortable, it was pleasant for them both.

Mihael had been the one to speak first, and when he did the sun was low in the sky, casting the grounds around them in a soft golden light. When he spoke, his voice was shaking, and despite how simple a question he asked, Mail couldn’t help but worry that something was wrong.

“Can I tell you something?”

Of course, Mail said yes. Over the few years he had known him, he had grown to care deeply for the boy, he considered him his best friend. If he wanted to tell him something, then he wanted to hear it. Mail told him as much.

“You . . . you spend a lot of time looking at girls now, don’t you?”

Mail supposed he did. They were about the age when boys started to notice girls, and he certainly had done. Although, he found he liked the girls in his games more than real girls. He wasn’t sure he needed to say something like that now, though, so he didn’t. He just agreed; sure, he liked girls.

“I don’t.”

It seemed an innocent enough thing at the time. Mail didn’t think much of it in the moment. They were still young. Perhaps he was just a late bloomer. Some people did take more time to come around, and he was sure the other would soon enough. He assured him as much, gave him a small smile, told him there was nothing wrong with him, if that was what he was worried about.

“No, Matt, that’s the thing,” he had protested, voice trembling, tears welling in baby blue eyes. Mail didn’t like it when he cried, but he didn’t do anything to try to comfort him yet. He wasn’t finished speaking. “I don’t look at _girls_ , Matt.”

Still, it didn’t resonate in Mail’s mind right away. Why would it? He had never really given sexuality much thought, he was hardly even consciously aware of it. There were a few moments of a much more uncomfortable silence between them, and it dawned on Mail that he was trying to tell him something, something he didn’t want to have to say out loud. So he had to think about it. The tears were spilling over now, and reflexively Mail reached over to wipe them away, as he had done countless times in the past, but the blonde pulled back, shaking his head, and wiped his eyes on his own sleeve. The expression on his face was desperate, and Mail realised only then what he had been missing — ‘I don’t look at _girls_ ,’ he’d said. He emphasised the word _girls_. He was looking, just not in the same direction Mail, and most of the other boys their age, were looking. His eyes went wide as it dawned on him, and he could see the other boy flinching as he saw Mail realise what he was trying to tell him, as if he was afraid that he was going to think badly of him now for liking boys. Mail didn’t say it then, but the idea did make him a little bit angry. He thought that he had made it clear enough already that he cared about his friend, so why should he be worried that something like this would ruin things between them? He knew better than to say so. What he needed was comfort, not to be berated for worrying over nonsensical things.

Mail reassured him. Told him he didn’t care who he liked. It was true, he didn’t care. But it seemed to be of little comfort. At first, that did confuse Mail. He had thought the biggest worry his friend had was that Mail wouldn’t like him anymore all because he liked boys.

He was clutching the rosary he wore around his neck.

He was Catholic. Of course. Mail was practically kicking himself for not picking up on it sooner, he knew full well that his friend was on the religious side. And the Catholic faith’s teachings didn’t exactly speak all too kindly of homosexuals. He was worried about what Mail would think, but also of what his God would think.

Mail never did quite work out what it was that made him do what he did next. In any other scenario, it would never have occurred to him. But he leaned over quickly enough that he wouldn’t have enough time to pull away, tangling the fingers of one hand in silky blonde hair, and kissed his friend on the mouth.

His lips tasted like chocolate. Mail didn’t hate it.

When they broke apart, the blonde was crying again, but this time he allowed Mail to wipe his eyes dry, staring confusedly at him, eyes shining in the low light of the sunset.

“Why did you do that?”

At first, he wasn’t sure of his logic. Why _had_ he kissed him? He’d never thought about kissing a boy before. But he did come to a conclusion: he’d kissed him, which was gay — if Mello was going to Hell for being homosexual, then Mail was going with him. The blonde laughed when he said it, resting his own hand over Mail’s where it still rested on his cheek.

“ _Mihael_ ,” he’d whispered, “if we’re going to Hell together, you should at least know my _name_ : Mihael Keehl.”

Mail liked the name. It sounded angelic, perfectly suited to his friend. He said as much, and Mihael blushed. He’d not thought about it much in a long time, not since around the time they first met, when he nicknamed Mihael ‘Princess’, after Princess Zelda. He looked a lot like a girl. And now that Mail gave it some thought, he looked like a _pretty_ girl. He didn’t say so. He almost wished he had.

Later on, while Mihael was sleeping, Mail found himself, for the first time in his life, craving the taste of chocolate, which he imagined he could still taste on his lips.

* * *

  
When he was twelve, Mail was very used to the taste of chocolate. He even liked it.

Against the same tree they had been sitting under when Mihael had confessed his sexuality to Mail, where Mail first kissed him, Mihael sat in Mail’s lap, leaning into him, their chests pressed together. Mihael’s arms were wound around Mail’s neck, while Mail’s hands rested on his hips. His mouth tasted like chocolate, much more strongly than his lips did the first time Mail had kissed him. His lips were soft, warm against his own, and he could feel his heart beating against his chest, quick and uneven, and the boy was growing breathless. Mail was sure Mihael could feel the same thing.

He had never done anything of the sort before, and he wasn’t sure where the idea came from, but he moved his left hand, slowly upwards from where it had been resting on his hip, lifting his shirt ever so slightly. Mihael’s skin was hot to the touch — or perhaps his hand was cold. He felt Mihael start at the touch, and he broke away from Mail’s lips, prompting him to open his eyes. Mihael’s eyes were wide, shining in the pale moonlight, and Mail was struck in that moment by just how beautiful he was, he wasn’t just _pretty_. With his right hand, Mail brushed a few stray strands of blonde hair, stained white by the moonlight, aside, and allowed his hand to settle on Mihael’s cheek, brushing his thumb slowly along his cheekbone.

Softly, in a tone of voice so gentle that he almost didn’t believe it was his own for just a second, he asked Mihael a very simple question, for one word — _yes_ or _no_?

Mihael was silent for a brief moment, and Mail was worried for that time that he shouldn’t have asked what he did, but he smiled at Mail then, and leaned in to press another chaste kiss to his lips, before pulling back so that they were looking each other in the eyes once more. When he spoke again, his voice was steadier, but just as quiet, even though he had clearly caught his breath. He only uttered one word, “ _Yes_.”

It was all Mail needed to hear. He wasted no time in kissing him again, his left hand wandering further up Mihael’s side, warming slowly against Mihael’s skin. It was soft, and smooth, pleasant against Mail’s fingertips, and he found that he liked the way that Mihael shivered under his touch, an almost unnoticeable reaction, but one that Mail, pressed directly against Mihael’s chest, could feel. It was almost intoxicating, along with the catches in Mihael’s breathing. It was as if it tickled, but not quite enough to make him laugh, and Mail loved it.

The boys didn’t lose their virginity that night, but that didn’t matter. What mattered, at least in Mail’s mind, was the closeness between them, the intimacy they shared. They fell asleep in each other’s arms that night, skin against skin, in Mail’s bed.

The last thing Mail noticed before he fell asleep that night, his face pressed into the back of Mihael’s neck, blonde hair tickling his nose, was that he could still taste him in his mouth. Unsurprisingly, he tasted like chocolate.  
  


* * *

By the time he was fourteen, Mail was eating chocolate pretty often.

Although, he wasn’t eating it from the bar. Not usually. No, more often than not, he was taking it from his boyfriend’s mouth, laughing at how red Mihael’s face turned when he broke away, and the way his breath caught in his throat when he could taste chocolate in Mail’s mouth when he kissed him.

Mail wasn’t sure how this had happened, how this relationship between the two of them had bloomed. He had never considered boys even close to an option before this, before _him_ , but funnily enough he’d never actually had a real crush on a _real_ girl. He often joked that it was only Mihael’s resemblance to Princess Zelda that he found attractive, and Mihael would grow indignant when Mail kissed him and called him Princess, but the truth was that there was far more about Mihael that Mail liked. Loved, even. He didn’t want to say it, was almost afraid of admitting it, but he loved Mihael. He loved him dearly. Mihael said it a lot, all the time even. And every time Mihael said it, Mail would kiss him, and mumble something along the lines of _you too_ , and he would always feel a pang of guilt when he felt Mihael deflate somewhat, wishing he was able to say the words, even once.

Mihael woke him with a kiss, something he had started doing over a year ago, which Mail had found he actually rather liked. He didn’t open his eyes immediately upon waking up, wrapping his arms around Mihael’s waist and pulling him down so they were pressed chest to chest against each other. He had been noticing a lot recently that Mihael was _very_ thin, and he noticed it again as he tightened his hold on the boy, making a mental note to keep an eye on what he actually ate throughout the day. He had always seemed to have a very small appetite for anything other than chocolate, something that Mail had simply gotten used to, but it had struck him recently as a cause for concern. Especially as he seemed to be dropping in weight _again_.

There was a piece of chocolate in Mihael’s mouth, as there almost always was. It was melting already, but Mail still pulled it from the other boy’s mouth with his tongue, giving him a sly grin as he pulled away. Mihael was red in the face, but Mail only laughed, reminding him that if he didn’t want him to eat the chocolate out of his mouth then he shouldn’t kiss him while it was still there to be stolen. He was pretty sure that Mihael liked it, secretly.

Mail sat up, pulling Mihael into his lap as he did so, to break a piece off the bar of chocolate Mihael had been eating before waking him up. Briefly, he pressed it against Mihael’s lips, but before the boy had a chance to open his lips, he pulled it back, and placed it in his own mouth, with a smile. The message was clear: _if you want it, take it, Princess_.

And take it he did, leaning in to claim the chocolate with a kiss that tasted overwhelmingly like chocolate.  
  


* * *

When he was fifteen, chocolate reminded Mail of the worst decision he had ever made in his life.

It was his first and only heartbreak, and it was his own fault. He wasn’t as oblivious as Mihael had seemed to assume he was, and he _did_ notice the way that people’s comments about them affected him. He acted as if everything was fine, but Mail knew that simply the fact that he was gay — something that his religion, the belief system he had been raised with and had carried with him all his life, strongly preached against — still caused him a lot of stress, despite how happy he was in their relationship. On top of that, to have to deal with other children who were _supposed_ to be some of the world’s most intelligent (based on this behaviour, Mail considered them all rather stupid, but that wouldn’t bring Mihael any comfort) teasing him, calling him names that Mail asked him not to repeat was difficult for him. It didn’t bother Mail, things like that never had bothered him, but he knew that Mihael was a lot more sensitive than him.

Looking back, it was the stupidest decision he could ever made under the circumstances. What Mihael needed was for Mail to be there for him, to comfort him, to assure him that whatever the other inhabitants of the House had to say about him didn’t matter. He should have known that. But Mail had never been good with words, or people, and figuring people out, particularly people as complex as Mihael, was difficult for him. Ironic, considering the fact that he would have said at the time that he knew Mihael better than he knew himself. He realised later that he was sorely mistaken, and often wondered if, had he been able to admit to himself that he didn’t have Mihael figured out quite as well as he thought, he would have done things differently.

He wished he’d done things differently. They were still fourteen at the time, but even months later, Mail was still dwelling on it.

Mihael was crying. Mail was quick to throw his game controller down, to get up from the bed and pull Mihael into his arms, combing his fingers through his hair, trying to reassure him. He didn’t say anything yet, waiting for Mihael to explain what had happened. He was expecting it to be to do with Near, some achievement showed up once again, and he would hold him until the tears stopped, kiss him until he smiled.

But that wasn’t quite the case. He wasn’t crying because of Near, because he was insecure about his ‘worthiness’ of a place at Wammy’s House. Not this time. No, this time he was crying because of another boy’s cruel words. That was new to Mail. He knew it upset him, he’d noticed the way his face fell when he heard them speak, but he’d never seen him cry about it, not so openly. So he panicked. He knew what to do when Near upset Mihael, he knew how to handle his stress-induced panic attacks, knew how to calm him when he had nightmares, what to do when he was upset around the time of the anniversary of the day he lost his family. But this was new. He didn’t know what to do here.

He panicked, and he said something very, _very_ stupid.

He said that if it was upsetting Mihael so much, maybe they shouldn’t be together.

He regretted it as soon as the words passed his lips, but the damage was done already. All he could do was watch as Mihael’s eyes widened, and he stepped back from him, sitting down on the bed as his body was racked with a sob. He wanted to speak, but he didn’t know what to say, so he stayed quiet. He didn’t want to accidentally say the wrong thing and make it even worse. Later, he wished he had said something when he had the chance. Mihael was shaking, staring down at his hands in his lap. He was silent, but sobbing, and Mail wanted to do something, _anything_ , but he was lost entirely for words, unable even to move, to pull Mihael into his arms and reassure him that he didn’t mean it. So he just stood there, stunned to the point of speechlessness by the stupidity of his own words, staring at Mihael.

“If that’s what you think . . .” Mihael spoke slowly, as if he was hoping Mail would cut him off, correct him, do _anything_ that might indicate that it wasn’t really what he wanted. But Mail didn’t do anything like that. In face, he didn’t do anything at all. He just stared at him. Mihael didn’t seem to want to continue, but when it became apparent to him that Mail wasn’t going to say anything he just sighed, and nodded to himself. “Fine. Maybe we shouldn’t be together.”

Before mail had a chance to do or say anything, to reach out, to say something, correct himself, Mihael had gotten to his feet, and was leaving the room, slamming the door behind him. In what felt like less than a second, he was gone, and Mail was alone. He hadn’t cried in a long, long time, but he found himself unable to keep from falling back onto the bed, and crying.

He thought about it every day for months. Even after Mihael left. Near told him later that Mihael hadn’t left because of him, that it was because of L dying, but it felt to Mail like there was too short a time between their breakup and his disappearance that there couldn’t be _no_ link between the two events. Perhaps L’s death was the last push he needed to convince him to run away, but Mail was sure he had been a contributing factor. Maybe he just wanted to find some way he could remain important to Mihael in his mind, some kind of comfort for himself.

After mihael left, his bed was far too cold, and it felt empty. He didn’t sleep as soundly anymore as he did when Mihael was sleeping beside him. It seemed as if he was just _entirely_ gone. His disappearance was hardly treated as important by anyone, and within weeks the only other person still willing to talk about him was Near. Mail didn’t _want_ to spend any amount of time speaking to him at first, because of how much hurt he had caused for Mihael over the years, but it turned out that actually, he wasn’t bad at all. He liked Mihael, thought he was impressive, even admired his determination and how hard working he is.

Near lamented the fact that Mihael had always hated him. Perhaps he shouldn’t have assumed he knew Mihael so well, after the way he reacted to him crying just a few months beforehand, but he assured Near that Mihael had _never_ hated him, the only person Mihael had ever hated was himself.

At night, Mail missed him the most. Aside from the conversations he had about Mihael with Near, the only reminder he had of him was a rosary he had left behind him, and his favourite chocolate.


End file.
